Secret Santa
by Lambent Flame
Summary: At Springfield Nuclear Plant's Christmas Party, a Secret Santa gift exchange prompts revelations between Mr. Burns and Smithers. The new revelations lead them to uncover a piece of Burns' past that has great implications for his future - and perhaps Smithers', too.
1. Chapter 1

Secret Santa

The cafeteria at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant looked festive, as multicolored lights were now strung along the walls alongside garland, bells, and mistletoe, and a poinsettia stood at the center of every table. A stack of presents sat by a plastic tree, and employees danced drunkenly about as a mix of pop Christmas songs played over the speaker. Smithers and Burns stood by the punch and cookies table, Smithers dressed in a Santa outfit complete with a fake white beard and over-sized red hat.

"I'm glad you decided not to cancel this year's Christmas party, sir," said Smithers as he ladled out a glass of punch and handed it to Burns.

"Yes, well, as soon as you offered to pay for it, I stopped dreading it as much." He took a sip of punch while Smithers got himself a glass. "And besides, I'm looking forward to your Secret Santa gift."

"Who told you I'm your Secret Santa this year?"

"No one had to tell me anything; you're always my Secret Santa. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out."

"It's true, I rig it so we're each other's Secret Santa. I can't trust anyone else here to get you something nice enough."

"You must place a lot of trust in me, considering you always make me your Secret Santa."

"I really liked your last gift."

"Which was that?"

"The tickets to the revival of Company."

"Oh, yes, as I recall, you couldn't find anyone to go with you, so you called me and asked me to come with you."

"Actually, sir, you were my first choice."

"You told me you'd called everyone you knew and they were all busy."

"I thought you'd be more likely to go with me if you thought I had nobody else." Smithers slammed back the last of his punch. "I'm really glad you came. It wouldn't have been the same without you."

Burns took a long, slow sip of his punch before saying softly, "I wanted you to ask me."

"Huh?"

"When I gave you the tickets, I wanted you to ask me along." He grimaced, then said, "All this time, I thought I was your last choice."

Smithers snorted in disbelief. "You're always my first choice. You must know that by now."

"Sometimes I have my doubts."

"Don't doubt me, Monty."

"I won't," he said, holding up his nearly empty glass, gesturing for more. As Smithers topped off his glass, Burns added, "Provided you return the favor."

Smithers slowly nodded. "It's difficult sometimes, but..." Smithers looked directly into his eyes, then said softly, "...I trust you."

They clinked their glasses together in a toast. "To our continuing trust," said Burns before each sipped his drink. As they stood beside each other, surveying the sea of drunken employees, Burns said, "Look at them, Smithers. Flirting shamelessly with each other, not a care in the world about what others would think of their behavior. Mature adults understand there are some sexual tensions you simply can't resolve, especially in the workplace."

Smithers bit his lip, searching for the courage to speak up. "Please, call me Waylon. It is a party, sir. There's no need for formality."

"Which is why you just called me, 'sir.'" Burns smirked playfully. "Very well. Waylon it is. But honestly, what is it about the poor that as soon as they imbibe a little alcohol, they start behaving in an undignified manner?"

"I don't know. But I don't think there's anything wrong with an office romance."

He waited until Smithers had begun drinking more of his punch and said, "So, why haven't I seen you flirt with anyone at work, Waylon?"

Smithers choked a little on his punch. Once his throat was clear, he said, "You wouldn't want me to behave in an undignified manner, would you?"

"Of course not. But not all flirting is undignified. Sometimes, it's even welcome."

"I have flirted at work. I guess you just haven't noticed."

"Perhaps I haven't." Burns shuddered. "This music is dreadful. What _is_ this supposed song?"

"Uh, _Santa Baby_."

"I don't care for this new music."

"Actually, it was first recorded in the fifties." They had had this conversation before.

"As I said, I don't care for new music."

"I'll switch to the instrumental playlist," he said, heading for the music player.

Without Smithers there to distract him, his attention focused on the lyrics. _Think of all the fun I've missed, think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed._ "Frivolous drivel." His mind wandered to the dream he'd had the night before. He had been walking through 1920s Springfield when he came upon a newsstand manned by Smithers in his late twenties.

"_Sir, would you like a paper?"_

"_How much is it?"_

"_Two cents."_

"_All right," he said, pulling two pennies from his pocket and handing them to him. "I already subscribe to the Wall Street Journal, but I like the cut of your jib. Which paper is this, anyway?" he asked as Smithers handed it to him._

"_It's the Springfield Times."_

"_I've never heard of it."_

"_It's a very unusual newspaper. It reports on things normal journalists can't find out."_

_Burns looked at the front of his paper. The headline read: **Monty Burns Has Secret.** Burns quickly clutched the paper to his chest, afraid to read on to find out what secret the article supposedly revealed, especially because he was sure he already knew. "What's going on?"_

"_Don't worry. Your secrets are safe with me."_

"_How do you know my secret?"_

"_Come with me, and I'll show you," he said, leaving the newsstand for the driver's seat of a black 1922 Lancia Lambda. Smithers gestured for him to join him in the passenger seat, and Burns sat beside him in the car._

"Is that better, sir?" Smithers was back at his side, and an arrangement of Silent Night for harp and strings was playing.

"What? Oh, yes, yes." He stared into his glass. "I believe I've had too much of this punch," he said with a nervous chuckle.

"I'll get the cranberry juice out, then."

"I didn't say I was done drinking it." He gestured for Smithers to refill his glass, and he did so.

"Are you ready for the Secret Santa?"

"Yes, let's get on with it so I can get my present and clear these drunken louts out of here."

Smithers led Burns to a large red chair beside the tree, then began by picking out a present. "This one is from Homer... to Carl."

Burns yawned, his mind drifting back to his dream.

"_What were you going to show me?" he asked Smithers._

"_You'll see." In what seemed an instant, they arrived at an alleyway paved in cobblestone, and Smithers parked near it, then headed for the alley, stopping to gesture for Burns to follow when he saw he was still in the car._

_As Burns caught up to him, he said, "Where are you taking me?"_

"_You know where we are, Monty." He rapped at the door in Morse code, and the door opened for them. "Or don't you recognize your favorite speakeasy?"_

_They entered, and a look of recognition washed over Burns' face. "The Lamppost 12th Ave. I never thought I'd see it again." He smiled in reminiscence of good times had there, looking around to soak in the sights – the player piano, Art the bartender, the billiards table, the dart board, and everywhere men having a good time. "But those days are long past me."_

"_They don't have to be."_

"_You don't understand. I'm an old man now. I can't relive my youthful indiscretions, fun as they were."_

"_No, Monty, you don't understand. I can make you young again." Smithers handed him a hand mirror, and he saw his face now looked as it did when he was twenty-five._

"_Incredible."_

"...I know who this one is for," said Smithers, holding a light, slender box wrapped in red paper with silver ribbon and a silver bow. "Merry Christmas, Monty," he said as he handed it to Burns.

Burns unraveled the ribbon, then grabbed hold of a flap of paper that Smithers had intentionally left un-taped for ease of removal and tore it open, then removed the lid of the box to see a red houndstooth necktie, a watch, and cufflinks with a three-dimensional model of an atom.

"I got the watch from Cartier. It's rose gold. The tie is made from silk and linen. I got it from Saks Fifth Avenue. The atom cufflinks are from Harrods, and they're platinum. I hope you like them."

"I do..." He held the watch over his wrist, a stylish leather band accompanying it.

"Here, let me help you put that on," he said, taking the watch and Burns' right wrist in hand, then fastening it, relishing in brushes of fingertips against wrist. "There." He leaned back to take in the sight of Burns wearing his watch. "Oh, Monty, I thought the watch looked good in the store, but it looks much better on you."

"It's magnificent. Everything you got me is."

Smithers beamed. "Permission to hug you, sir?" Burns nodded slightly and hugged him for a solid ten seconds before letting go, though it felt like minutes, as his mind flashed back to his dream, beginning with flashes of sensory memories, then returning to the scene that led him there.

_They drank and talked awhile at the bar before Smithers outright said, "So, when are you going to pick me up?" To Burns' dismayed face, Smithers sipped his drink and said, "I know you want to."_

"_Yes, I have for some time now."_

"_Then let's go," said Smithers, heading out to the car first and sitting behind the wheel. After a few minutes, Burns followed him there, and Smithers got the car rolling. "So, where do you want to go?"_

"_What?"_

"_Where do you want us to do it? We could park in an alley, or the outskirts of the woods."_

"_No. No, that would be undignified."_

"_Where then?"_

"_We'll go to the Manor. No one will ask questions."_

_Burns led him to his bedroom, and once he had closed the door, he began to unbutton his shirt, encouraged by Smithers' approving moan. Smithers took him in an embrace, feeling his chest as Burns moved to unbutton Smithers' pants._

"Monty? Sir?"

Burns blinked his eyes. "Yes, what is it?" he said, irritated.

"We went through the rest of the presents under the tree, but I didn't see mine. Did you put it somewhere else?"

"No. I..." He gulped, then looked back into Smithers' trusting eyes. "I didn't get you anything."

Smithers looked hurt but not surprised. "Well, I hope you enjoyed your Christmas party," he said, then stood and left the room.

Burns' eyes followed the path he'd taken and along the way, he caught the disgusted and scornful looks of his employees. He stiffened his lip and left the room, calling out, "Waylon, please! Listen to me..."

_As they lay in bed together, Burns brushed the back of his hand against Smithers' cheek and said, "You were excellent."_

_Smithers smiled and kissed Burns' hand. "You were pretty excellent yourself."_

"_I shouldn't think of you this way. It's one thing to lust after a lowly drone, but you're... so much more than that."_

_"And you're so much more to me than a billionaire."_

"_My business depends on you. If our relationship fell apart as all my intimate relationships have, I would lose millions of dollars... and my only friend."_

"_Then don't let it fall apart." Smithers kissed down his neck to his chest._

"_You're right. How could we possibly fall apart?" He kissed Smithers' ear, then whispered, "You're perfect." Smithers kissed his navel. "If you were a woman, I'd have married you."_

"_Let me show you how perfect I can be." He grasped Burns' thighs and kept going lower._

_He felt the Smithers of his dream fading, yielding to the dawn, and fought to keep him. "Please, Waylon, don't stop now."_

_He had awoken with a start in his bed as Smithers walked in with his breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and waffles with a glass of orange juice on a tray. "Don't stop what, sir?" Smithers had asked him._

"_None of your business," he'd snapped back. Once the tray was on his lap and a fork in his hand, he'd yelled, "Get out of here! I don't need you breathing over my shoulder as I eat!" Smithers had furrowed his brow in annoyance but quickly complied, leaving Burns alone._

He reached the door to Smithers' office, wherein Smithers had locked himself. "Waylon, please, listen to me," he said, rapping weakly on the door. "I was planning to get you something, but I couldn't decide what to give you. Nothing seemed adequate."

"Please, Mr. Burns, spare me the facile excuses. It's time I face the fact that you don't care about me the way I care about you."

Burns felt a churning in the pit of his stomach. _I didn't earn my fortune by not taking any risks. Perhaps it's time I took one now. _"I did have one gift ready. But you'll have to let me inside to give it to you." Smithers unlocked the door, and Burns walked inside, closing it behind him. "First of all, I need you to take that silly beard off your face."

Smithers pulled it off and set it on his desk. "Okay. Now what?"

"I need you to close your eyes."

Smithers closed his eyes. "All right."

"Now, hold still." Burns sat on Smithers' desktop and leaned forward, kissing his lips. Smithers felt a jolt of electricity down his spine and leaned into the kiss, stroking the back of Burns' head. Burns brought his hand to the back of Smithers' head and slid it down his neck and back.

"That's one hell of a Christmas present."

Burns chuckled. "No, Waylon. That wasn't your present. That was the invitation."


	2. Chapter 2

Secret Santa

"How did you know that was exactly what I wanted?" asked Smithers, his lips still slightly apart in awe, his fingertips grazing his lips.

"It's no secret. Each year it becomes more painfully obvious you're trying to contrive a way for us to meet under the mistletoe."

"And after a few times laughing it off as a joke, you usually kiss me on the cheek."

"Before we go any further, you must promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"We cannot fall apart. I need you at my side."

"That won't happen," he said, holding Burns' hands in his, running his fingertips over the backs of Burns' fingers. "I want to be with you, Monty, more than anything else. As long as you want us to be together, we'll be together."

Burns reached for the intercom button on Smithers' desk and spoke into the microphone. "Attention all worthless drones: get the hell out. The party is over. And don't dally! The hounds are hungry and would love to bring home some Christmas hams." He lifted his finger from the button. "That should get them to clear out."

"So, what exactly do you have in mind? You know, for us, tonight?"

Burns smiled slyly. "I think we both know the answer to that."

"Oh, thank God. I was afraid it wasn't going to be what I was hoping." Smithers opened his eyes wide in a subdued panic. "It is what I'm hoping for, isn't it?"

"If what you're hoping for is a quiet evening relaxing by the fire, then yes."

Smithers forced a smile, saying, "Oh, good, that's exactly... what I was hoping for."

After a few seconds of looking earnest, Burns started snickering. "You're so gullible."

"You got me." Smithers put a hand on Burns' cheek, prompting him to look directly into his eyes. Marveling for a moment that they were sharing the intimate touch, he said, "So, are we going to use your office?"

"No." He leaned in closer until their lips were a hair's breadth apart. "No, I'm going to take you home." They kissed, lips drifting to cheek and to chin as they relished in their closeness. "Let's go. They should be out of here by now."

Smithers scooped him off his desk and held him in his arms, still kissing him as they left his office. He kicked the door closed with the back of his foot and headed for the parking lot, eyes still fixed on Burns'. Once they were in the parking lot by their cars, Smithers saw the moon in Burns' eyes and paused to gaze into them.

"What's the hold-up?" said Burns, impatient. "Did you lose your keys?"

"No, Monty. I was just thinking, 'Is there any sight more beautiful than this?'" He kissed Burns, getting his keys out in the middle of their kiss and opening the front passenger side door to the limousine. He slowly parted their lips, then lowered him gently into the seat.

When Smithers got behind the wheel and put his key into the ignition, Burns said in a tentative voice, "You're not worried?"

A slight furrow of confusion in Smithers' brow broke through his elation. "What would I be worried about? Everything is perfect." He raised his eyebrows. "Unless I've just died and am in heaven now. But if I get to be with you, dying doesn't sound bad."

As Smithers backed the limousine out of the space and headed out, Burns said, "I meant that sex could cloud our relationship."

"Sex has already clouded our relationship." He looked Burns' way. "Isn't it better for us to release the tension, make each other feel good, than to spend the rest of our lives wishing we had?"

"You make a persuasive argument," said Burns, his fingers finding their way to Smithers' thigh and crawling further inward.

Smithers gasped and held his breath. "Not now. I want us to get there in one piece. Right now, you're much too distracting."

Burns withdrew his fingers. "Sorry." It began to snow when they arrived at Burns Manor. Smithers led him to the door, and when they were inside and went to hang up their coats, they realized they had left them at the plant. They made the realization simultaneously, and as Smithers said, "We'll find a way to keep warm," Burns said, "I'll keep you warm."

As Burns headed for his liquor cabinet, Smithers said, "Where are you going?" Burns reached into a chilled section and pulled out a bottle of champagne. He grabbed a corkscrew and a pair of fluted glasses, then handed them to Smithers. He took Smithers' free hand with his and smiled, making a decisive nod with his eyes pointing toward his bedroom, and they walked eagerly to Burns' room.

Once inside, Smithers opened the champagne and poured them each a glass. "I confess, I'm not very interested in the champagne."

"Splash it on your face for all I care; the point is this is something worth celebrating." Burns looked him up and down. "And get out of that insipid Santa costume; it's ruining the mood." While Smithers removed his boots, Burns said, "It's been a very long time since I've been with a man." Smithers removed his Santa jacket. "I thought I had long outgrown those youthful impulses."

"Until?"

"Until you kissed me. You know, when we thought the world was about to end, and you kissed me. I wanted more."

Smithers paused from taking his pants off. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I convinced myself it was a passing fancy. I'm not a young man anymore, Waylon. Old men of distinguished repute simply don't start lustful affairs with their male companions."

"Some do." Smithers finished removing his pants. "I'd say you're in pretty good company."

"And my analyst seemed to think it was evidence I was regressing to a childish state."

"Don't pay any attention to that Freudian bull." He loosened Burns' tie. "You're a magnificent man." He slid the tie off, then removed his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt. "And what we're about to have together tonight will remind you that not all good things are for the young." Smithers kissed him, leaning him back against the bed as he undid Burns' pants. "Some things are better when you're older."

"And you're about to find out just how true that is," said Burns as he sat up and caught Smithers' lips again and turned him over.


	3. Chapter 3

Secret Santa

"You were right," said Smithers, stroking Burns' chest from behind. "I didn't think it was possible, but that was better than I ever imagined it would be. And I've done a lot of imagining over the years. How long did you say it's been since you were with a man?"

"I'm not sure I even remember." Burns pursed his lips. "At least seventy-five years, I should think."

"I think it's just that _you're_ amazing, no matter how old you are." He nuzzled his head against Burns' neck.

Burns turned to face him. "You're sure this won't ruin our work relationship, or our friendship?"

"Our relationship has been strained before, but we've always patched things up. Tonight has only brought us closer together. Now, relax and cuddle with me." Burns held himself close against Smithers, who wrapped his arms around him. "I love you beyond measure, Monty. Don't worry about us."

"It's not you I worry about." Smithers' eyebrows betrayed his concern. "You know my track record."

"Isn't that a little presumptuous? I wasn't even alive for most of your track record."

"That's right. And there's much I haven't told you."

"Does that really matter? Whatever mistakes you may have made then, you aren't destined to repeat them."

"There is some of my past you should know about. You see, I used to fool around with other men often when I was young."

"Well, I wouldn't know anything about what that's like," said Smithers with a sarcastic smirk.

"But fooling around is all we did. I had strong appetites, and sometimes it was difficult to find women willing to satisfy them. So, I would look for men interested in having a little fun, and I never came home empty-handed."

"I'm not surprised. I've seen photographs of you in your twenties and thirties." Smithers whistled. "I can't imagine anyone sexier."

"How can I impress this upon you..." Burns trailed his fingers down Smithers' spine. "Waylon, I've never fallen in love with another man before."

"From what I can tell, it's a lot like falling in love with a woman."

"I might never love you the way you want me to."

"That's okay." Smithers kissed him below his ear. "I love you as you are."

"Even if I can never love you half as much as you love me?"

"Yes."

"You mean you won't be disappointed even if I see you as nothing more than an employee and friend 'with benefits?'"

"I'll be disappointed, of course. Devastated, even. But I knew twenty years ago I couldn't count on you loving me back. Yet I've stayed by your side all this time, and you know why?" Burns cocked his head. "Because I love you, and I accept who you are. I'm just glad I've been able to spend so much time with you."

Burns sat up. "I really should go out and get you a proper Christmas gift."

Smithers laid a hand on Burns' shoulder and gently guided him back to the mattress. "That's really not necessary. You've already given me the best birthday and Christmas gift combined that I could ever hope for."

"Still, it was as much a gift to myself as it was to you."

"Wasn't that true about the tickets to Company, too?" Smithers smiled. "It was still a great gift. Monty, of course your gift to me was also for you. I know you. You're ruthlessly self-serving, and... at this point, we operate more as a team than as individuals. I mean, when was the last time either of us did something alone? Other than something routine and boring, like laundry."

"I took in a film at the cinema."

"Without me? When?"

"July, I think." Smithers gave him an "I-told-you-so" look. "And don't give me that smug look." He curled his fingers around one of Smithers' wrists and said, "A gift should be something special, not a routine action."

"Am I reading you wrong, or are you suggesting we make making love a routine action?"

"You're not wrong."

"How... routine?"

"Every week?" Smithers' eyes brightened. "How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a dream come true." He kissed Burns and while his lips were near his ear, he whispered, "Do you have any idea how many times I've dreamed about you?" Burns shook his head. "More times than I can count."

"I've dreamt of you, as well." Smithers grinned, thrilled that he could light Burns' fire as Burns had lit his for years. "Ever since the day you kissed me, I've been dreaming about you."

"Is that why you've been so irritable in the mornings lately?" Burns sheepishly nodded. "And I spent all that time trying to figure out how to improve your sleep. I thought it was your bedtime tea, or the way I tucked your blankets in, or the pillow, or the mattress, or the fabric softener used on your pajamas, or –"

"Waylon! The point is moot."

"Oh. Right. Go on."

"The dreams start out differently, but they all end the same way. I was back in the 1920s, and I would meet you. Sometimes you were a newsstand attendant, sometimes you were my chauffeur, sometimes a bartender – but we would always find ourselves at the Lamppost 12th Ave."

"Is there something special about the lampposts on 12th Avenue?"

"It's – it was – the name of an establishment I used to frequent. One that catered to men of certain inclinations we share."

"A penchant for whiskey?"

"That's not what I meant." He averted his eyes. "I mean men who seek intimate knowledge of one another."

"I know what you meant. I was just giving you a hard time."

"I'd think you've done enough of that for one night." They both smirked at his double entendre. "It was my favorite speakeasy. Oh, it wasn't as classy as some that I would drink at to be seen. They didn't have the best booze, or the best pool table, and there was always the occasional visit from a mafioso or police on a raid, but in that period, that scarcely distinguished it from any other saloon. No, what made it different was how my fellow patrons and the man who tended the bar accepted me. As I was.

"There, I didn't have to live up to the expectations for a man of my station. I was free to pursue my heart's desire. And oh, did my heart desire a lot." He smiled as he looked into the distance, stroking the back of Smithers' hand. "It was like stepping into a dreamworld, giving me a peek of another life I could have. At home and at boarding school, I'd always been reprimanded for violating the strict codes of conduct set for me. At the Lamppost 12th Ave, I was celebrated for it."

"I'm glad you had a place like that. It makes a world of difference, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does."

"What happened to it? I know something about Springfield's gay history, but I've never heard of the Lamppost 12th Ave."

"In 1927, Springfield law enforcement cracked down on 'immorality' by enforcing harsh punishments for men caught trying to have relations with one another. Most of the bar's patrons fled to Shelbyville or other neighboring towns, or simply maintained a low profile. The bar was deserted in a matter of months and forced to close. Most of those who stayed and remembered it would never speak of it."

Smithers nodded his head. "I remember reading about that 'immorality' crackdown. Is the building still there?"

"As far as I know."

"I'd like to see it."

"I'll take you there in the morning." He reached for his MyPad. "In the meantime, is there a present you'd like me to order for you?"

Smithers kissed his cheek and said, "You know what I like," then settled in under the blankets. "Surprise me."

As Smithers began falling into sleep, Burns scrolled on his tablet, searching for a gift that was worthy of Smithers. He saw many things he had already seen before and deemed inadequate – theater tickets, a Malibu Stacy clothing and accessory kit, a new desktop computer, a new MyPad – it all still seemed so inadequate. He heard Smithers snoring beside him and slid Smithers' glasses off his face and onto the nightstand, then slowly eased himself out of bed. His movement roused Smithers slightly, but he soon fell back into a deeper sleep, and Burns crept out of the room.

The next morning, Smithers awoke to light shining in his eyes from the window. For a moment, he was confused about his surroundings, expecting to wake up in his own bedroom. Once he realized he was lying in Burns' bed, the memory of the previous night flooded his mind's eye, and he moaned in satisfaction. He reached his arm out to bring Burns closer, but he could grasp at nothing but blankets.

"Monty?" He sat up and looked around. "Are you in the bathroom?" He looked inside the nearest bathroom and saw no sign of recent use. "Monty, where are you?" Back in the bedroom, he grabbed his robe and put it on, feeling the chill of the morning air, then grabbed his phone and dialed Burns' number. "Busy. Great." He stuffed the phone into his robe pocket and headed for the main hall, growing increasingly worried. He peered into Burns' study and found him sitting at his chair in his robe, phone in hand. "There you are!"

Burns shushed him, paying attention to the voice on the other line. "And you can have them printed and delivered by tonight?" A devious grin materialized on Burns' face. "Excellent. Well, that'll be all. Ta." He hung up the phone. "Ah, good morning, Waylon. Care to breakfast with me?"

"I'd be happy to. What do you want?"

"Nothing fancy today for me. Scrambled eggs and shredded wheat."

"Do you want coffee, juice, or both?"

"Coffee and orange juice."

"And would you like some berries with your shredded wheat?"

"A delightful idea. I shall."

"I'll have it ready in a few minutes. Where do you want to eat?"

"The dining room."

"I'll bring it there when it's ready." It took him only a few minutes to prepare the eggs and cereal, and he brought two helpings promptly to the dining room, where he found Burns sitting at one end of the table. After setting the pitcher of orange juice and the coffee pot on the table and handing Burns his plate and bowl, he sat at an adjoining corner with his own eggs and cereal. He poured them each a glass of juice and a mug of coffee. "So," he said, taking a bite of scrambled eggs, "what do you need delivered here so urgently?"

"You'll find out when it arrives."

"Oh, so it's not business-related." A glint in his eye, he said, "Not a present for me, is it?"

"In fact, it is."

"I can't wait to see it."

"Well, you'll have to wait at least a few more hours."

"When did you want to take me to the Lamppost 12th Ave?"

"As soon as we finish breakfast." He took a sip of coffee. "I'll want you back here before the first package arrives."

"There's more than one?"

"I had a little trouble deciding."

Once they finished breakfast, they brushed their teeth and dressed into their usual attire, then went outside to see a light dusting of snow covering the lawn and the limousine. While Burns waited in the front passenger seat for the car to warm up, Smithers wiped away the snow on the car. When Smithers opened the door and sat behind the wheel, he said, "So, where is it exactly?"

"It's not far from your apartment." Burns pulled out a paper map from a compartment and pointed to where he had marked it with a red star. "It's a few blocks north of the Squidport, 12th and Commercial Street."

Smithers started driving, Burns feeling a strange sense of anticipation, as if they were destined to meet at his old haunt. He wasn't sure what he expected to change, but he felt he had to be there with Smithers, at least once in their lives. He was beginning to speculate that the impulse arose from a futile desire to redress the irreconcilable injustice of the stars that they had missed the primes of each other's lives when Smithers said, "We're almost there."


	4. Chapter 4

Secret Santa

Burns smiled at the sight of the familiar cobblestone of the alley as Smithers parked the car. Burns was the first out of the car, Smithers trailing behind him. "Come, it's this way." As Burns quickened his pace to a rapid walk, Smithers matched his pace, then stopped with him when they reached a door with a slender bar window with a sliding shade that enabled the person inside to identify the person outside. Burns reached his hand for the center of the door, his hand trembling as his palm met the weathered wood. Smithers clasped his hand around Burns', steadying it. "We're here..."

"Do you want to go inside now?"

"Yes, but it's locked, and I don't want you to destroy the door."

"Good thing I won't have to, then," said Smithers, producing a skeleton key from his jacket. "It's something I 'negotiated' from Chief Wiggum." He slipped the key in the hole, and after knocking loose some rust, managed to turn it and open the door.

They descended the stairs to find the barroom swallowed in darkness, dust, and stale air, but nevertheless, Burns felt an intense sense of comfort and familiarity. Smithers activated the flashlight feature of his phone and scanned their surroundings, illuminating a bar counter, dartboard, pool table, and player piano, along with a few tables and a couple of bar stools. Burns gasped and clutched Smithers' forearm. "Waylon, I don't believe it..." Smithers saw a chandelier with a string switch and pulled it, not expecting anything to happen, but the room lit up with a soft yet respectable illumination. Burns ran to the bar and sat in a stool, gesturing for Smithers to sit beside him. "Even the pool table is still here! Incredible..."

"You would think the owners would've sold this stuff long ago."

"Even if the original owner held on to it, he must surely be dead by now, and no one managing his estate would care."

"If they did, then this place wouldn't be unknown to Springfield's gay community today."

"But it is here. Almost everything, excepting a few chairs and tables. And the lights have been recently changed."

Smithers took a couple of shot glasses and a flask from his interior jacket pockets and set them on the bar counter. "Can I get you a drink, cutie?" Burns nodded, cheeks flushing as he was caught off guard, and Smithers poured from the flask into each of the shot glasses. "It's 25-year-old Scotch. I hope you don't mind, I got it from your liquor cabinet." Burns sipped slowly. "So, do you come here often?" Smithers smiled, reveling in the roleplay.

"Yes. What about you? I've never seen you here before."

"True, this is my first time here." He sipped his own Scotch. "Tell me, what's a handsome man like you doing by yourself?"

"Trying to meet a handsome man like you."

"And once you meet him, what then?" Smithers poured more Scotch into his shot glass. "You'll take him home, and – then what?"

"I'm never sure of what comes next." He sighed, looking across the bar to where Art would stand. "I don't know if I'm cut out for a serious relationship. Every serious relationship of mine has crumbled before we even reached the altar. I've broken the heart of every woman and man who's had deep feelings for me. I don't want to break yours."

"You never let your track record stop you from pursuing other people. Why are you so afraid now of breaking my heart?"

"Because you're Waylon Smithers. You're the only one that I have, and I'm starting to realize that."

Smithers took his hand. "You won't break my heart."

"There was a young man I met – in that very stool you're sitting in – who developed strong feelings for me. I dismissed him coldly, said I only used him for my pleasure. The truth was, I was developing feelings for him. I wasn't quite in love with him, but I might have fallen, if I had allowed myself."

"Take it from a man who knows: Allow yourself to love. You won't regret it."

"I'm telling you this because, if I should change my mind – if I should go back to telling you hurtful things to distance us – I want you to know, it's not true. It never was. I've been falling in love with you, Waylon, and I loathe how vulnerable I become when I care about you. But as much as I've tried to fight against this feeling, I can't help but care about you, and think about you." Burns tilted his empty shot glass Smithers' way, and Smithers refilled it. Burns drank it, then said, "I regret that we couldn't meet here when each of us was in his prime. When this bar was in its prime. In another life, we might have been lifelong lovers." Burns moved his hand up to wipe back a tear at his eye, but Smithers wiped it away first, then caressed his cheek, a few tears dripping from the corners of his own eyes.

"Oh, Monty..." He moved his arms to hug Burns, but Burns clasped his arms around Smithers' waist first in a desperate embrace. "I hate to see you cry."

"In love as in business, a missed opportunity can cost you everything." He pressed his nose against Smithers' shoulder. "I don't intend to pass this one by."

A set of stairs from the interior of the building behind the bar counter creaked with the rhythm of someone descending, making cautious steps. They froze, strengthening their embrace, hoping that whoever was on the stair would decide they had heard nothing of note and to go back where they came from. Instead, the stairs kept creaking, and as the figure got lower, the light from the chandelier threw a shadow on the wall. They realized simultaneously that the light was a dead giveaway that someone was down there, even if their conversation hadn't been overheard.

The figure came out of the shadows, revealing he was an elderly man in a black overcoat and brown derby hat. The light also revealed the gun in his hand pointed straight at their heads. They gulped in unison. The man said, "What in the hell do you-a think you're doing here?"

"Please, sir," said Smithers, still holding onto Burns for dear life, "we're revisiting a piece of Monty's past, and we didn't realize this space was still occupied. We'll leave immediately."

The man looked back and forth between them, noting the intimacy of their embrace. "I think not." He approached Burns, squinting to scrutinize his face. "You remember this-a place?" Burns nodded. "From when?"

"The 1920s," he said, voice quavering.

"What was it called then?"

"The Lamppost 12th Ave."

The man lowered his gun. "I believe you."

Smithers said, "You know what this place was?"

"Know? I helped run it," said the man. "My name is Gennaro."

"Gennaro?" said Burns. "Gennaro Di Maggio?"

"Yes, that's-a me."

Burns whispered to Smithers, "He's a mafioso."

"I'm afraid I don't do much in that line of work anymore."

Smithers said, "So why did you leave the bar mostly intact? Why didn't you sell everything you could when it went out of business?"

"Because – excuse me, what was-a your name?"

"Waylon."

"Because, Waylon – I met my first love here." He turned toward Burns, and a look of realization materialized on Smithers' face. "I was hoping you'd come back someday, Monty."

"I didn't come back for you," said Burns. "Although I do regret how I handled our relationship."

"That's true; he was just telling me that," Smithers rushed to add.

"Never you mind," said Gennaro. "I've not been waiting for you to come-a back to me. I've been waiting for you to come-a back to yourself." He rested his hand on the bar counter. "I keep this place as a reminder of good times – and how easily they can be taken away. I can now see," he said, looking to how Smithers slowly and delicately stroked Burns' spine, "that you've given love a second chance." He grinned. "Nurture that love, Monty. It could be your-a last chance." He touched Burns' elbow, then let his hand fall free. "You're free to go."

Burns hopped off the stool and headed for the door, while Smithers slowly rose from his stool. "You knew him at a time I never would've had the chance to, and you loved him at a time he needed to be loved, even if he didn't know how to return it. Thank you." He clasped his hands around one of Gennaro's, then let go and turned toward the door. He paused and turned back. "Gennaro, you seem to have a respect for history."

"The Di Maggio family is well-known for our deep respect of history as well as humor."

"This bar is an important part of Springfield's gay history, yet no one I've met in the community knows about it. We should preserve it and make others aware of it."

"I would be happy to help by renting out the space, but I could not contribute my-a personal testimony. Others in my family, they would not be so understanding. And when my family does not understand, the penalties can be severe."

"I understand. Maybe Monty will be willing to make a statement about the Lamppost – not mentioning you of course."

"Perhaps he will."

"I hope so. It would be a shame to see this place lost and forgotten."

"It would be." Gennaro wrote his phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Smithers. "If you need my assistance preserving history."

Smithers nodded and slipped the paper into his pocket, then joined Burns by the door. Once they were in the limousine, Smithers brought up the idea of preserving the bar.

"It sounds like a fine idea. It shouldn't cost much."

"The thing is, I'd want to share it with the rest of Springfield's gay community."

"And? What's stopping you?"

"We don't have any firsthand accounts of the bar recorded. If I start saying this was a gay bar in the twenties, people are going to ask how I'd know, if there isn't any written record."

"I'll provide the record."

"Really?" Smithers raised his eyebrows in surprise. He didn't expect it to be that easy. "I wasn't sure you'd be willing to come out after all this time."

"I exchanged some letters referencing the place. We used false names, so we needn't concern ourselves about revealing someone's identity."

They arrived back at the Manor as the first of the packages arrived. Smithers would take each inside and open the boxes, revealing gift-wrapped presents inside. He opened them as they came – a new desktop computer, a Malibu Stacy clothing and accessory kit, tickets to the dinner theater production of Gypsy, a new MyPad. "You've outdone yourself this year, Monty."

"You still haven't seen the best one yet."

"There's more?"

"Be patient. Have more eggnog," he said, pouring a few ounces of rum into Smithers' nearly empty glass of eggnog. Smithers shrugged and drank up. Once he'd finished, Burns offered to top him up again.

"No, thanks, I'll go get some more actual eggnog." As he stood to go to the kitchen, the doorbell rang, and Burns grabbed him by the elbow.

"Never mind that; it's here!"

"What's here?"

"Shut up and follow me!" They hurried to the door, and Burns opened it to see a man dressed in a full tuxedo carrying a velvet throw pillow with a slender gold rectangular box sitting on top of it.

The man lifted a tag from the box and said, "Is there a Waylon Smithers here?"

"I'm Waylon."

"You are cordially invited," said the man as he extended the box and the pillow toward him, "to attend the Broadway premiere of The Malibu Stacy Musical next year at the Palace Theatre."

Smithers looked a little confused for a moment before realizing what this meant. "Monty, how did you – this is incredible!" He hugged Burns.

"I stayed up last night, placed a few calls. As much as I'd like to take credit for this, you did most of the work. You made it an easy sell."

"Few things in the world of theater are an 'easy sell.'"

"Well, this was. You're invited to fly out there next week to help with casting."

The man holding out the box nudged Smithers with it. "Oh," he said, taking the box. "Can I keep the pillow, too?" The delivery man rolled his eyes slightly but handed it to him. Smithers opened the box and looked at the two tickets inside. "A private box for two! This is like a fairy tale."

"No, no fairy dust or magic required. Only the sweet smell of cold, hard cash." He smiled, then put an arm around Smithers' shoulders and guided him back inside as the delivery man left. He shut the door and said, "There is only one condition to this gift."

Smithers shoved one of the tickets into his hand. "Please, take the seat next to me."

"Finally you ask me," Burns said, sliding the ticket into his pocket. "I will. After all, you never invited me to the world premiere of your show."

"I'm sorry, but it didn't sound like something you'd be interested in, the way you sounded incredulous I would bother wasting my time on it."

"Obviously, I was mistaken, if the reviews are any guide." Burns slid his arm from Smithers' shoulder and hooked their arms together. "Now, let's go sit by the fire and remember good times, and relish in the opportunity to enjoy more."


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Remarkable. It looks just as it used to." Burns looked around the newly renovated Lamppost 12th Ave hours before reopening, from the newly lacquered bar counter to the polished tap faucets, to the restored player piano and pool table. He had been overseeing the process of its renovation for months to ensure it remained faithful to the original, but every time he walked inside, he felt as if he'd just been transported back to the twenties. "I can't believe it's going to be open again," he said, running his hand along the circumference of a stained cherry bar stool up to the leather upholstered seat.

"It's exciting, isn't it?" Smithers put his hand on Burns' shoulder. "It feels like I'm stepping back into the past with you."

Burns walked up to the player piano and strummed his fingers along the keys. "I'm glad you kept the player piano. I thought you might replace it with some sort of automated jukebox."

"We are going to use Spotify for most of the music. But the player piano is in working condition, and we'll have it play at the start of happy hour."

"Excellent." Burns picked up a paper from a nearby bar stool and held it up to read. It read: _Come to the Lamppost 12th Ave for drinks, food, fun, friendship. Springfield's only retro gay bar – Complete authenticity, including original mob connections!_

"That's the latest flier from the print shop. We've been posting these all over the gay district and around other parts of town, too."

"You expect a crowd tonight?"

Smithers nodded. "Ever since Kent Brockman interviewed me here, we've been getting calls from people trying to reserve a spot. I keep telling them it's first come, first serve, but some of them still call back trying to reserve a spot."

"Smart move. If you took reservations, you'd have to stop taking them when you're full to capacity. This way, you'll get a line of people outside."

"Exactly what I was thinking. It'll be great publicity."

Burns smirked. "It used to be that we only advertised by word of mouth in hushed tones. It's amazing how much has changed." He looked around at the bar. "Even as so much remains the same."

A man in his thirties arrived in a black suit circa 1920s, complete with a bowler hat. "Hey, Dan," said Smithers, walking up to him. "I want you to meet Mr. Burns," he said, guiding him toward the bar counter where he stood. "He's the co-owner. Whatever he says, goes, the same as if it were coming from me. Monty, this is Dan, our latest hire. He's going to tend bar tonight."

"Pleased to meet you," said Burns, shaking his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," he replied.

Smithers said, "He's had experience tending bars in Vegas. That's why I scheduled him for tonight. Our other bartender should be here soon." He turned to Dan. "How are you liking the uniform?"

"It's actually pretty cool. I love retro clothes." He put a bar smock on and got behind the bar counter.

"Max and Diane are already in the kitchen," he said to Dan, then turned to Burns and said, "It's really happening. After months of preparations, it's happening."

Burns said, "I'd think you'd have your jitters under control by now. This isn't the first gentleman's club you've managed."

"It's the first one I'm managing with you."

"True."

Once six o'clock hit, Smithers went to the door and cut the ribbon, allowing bar patrons entry. Once the bar was filled, Kent Brockman and the Channel 6 crew chased Smithers down. "Good evening, Springfield. Today, we're profiling a bar opening because apparently, nobody watches local news anymore besides the gays and the alcoholics." He turned to Smithers with his microphone. "Waylon Smithers, you're the owner of the Lamppost 12th Ave, and you're no stranger to gay nightclub management. What made you decide to open this one?"

"The Lamppost 12th Ave is a piece of Springfield history that was almost lost. It was the first gay bar we know of in Springfield, established in 1922 until it closed in 1927 when police persecution of homosexuality intensified. We've restored the original pool table and player piano, but we mostly use a playlist of modern tunes. We've also put in a couple of TV screens, mainly for sports and the Tony's, but we keep them by some tables away from the main bar so they don't overwhelm the original charm of the place. The main point of this place is for people to socialize and feel welcome."

"Uh-huh, fascinating. Mr. Burns, you're also officially co-owner. What interested you in owning a gay bar?"

"Actually, Kent, this was my favorite speakeasy in the twenties. I never thought I'd step foot inside it again. In fact, Waylon and I are more than co-owners," he said, taking Smithers' hand and leaning against him, "and I'd like for us to be even more." He dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a gold ring, holding it in front of Smithers' face. "Waylon, will you marry me?"

Smithers' eyes watered. "Yes, Monty, of course," he said in one breath, so awestruck he had trouble getting it back. Burns slipped the ring on his finger, and his lips quivered as he said, "Of course I'll marry you."

"Excellent." They kissed, and the bar patrons clapped, Brockman standing awkwardly beside them, obviously uncomfortable.

"So," said Brockman, "gays like their new bar. Good luck to you. Next, on Channel 6 – the paperclip shortage continues. See how desperate paper-pushers are improvising with soda tabs."

Smithers sat on a bar stool with Burns on his lap, kissing him as often as possible. Burns said, "I came here seventy-five years ago looking for some casual fun, and I found it. But after decades searching for someone I could love and cherish, who would love and cherish me for who I am, I realized here that I already had him, and all I had to do was hold onto him and let him know how much he meant to me. I love you, Waylon." They kissed again. "I won't let anyone stop me from loving you."

**AUTHOR NOTE:** This was supposed to be one or two short chapters focusing on just the Christmas party, but I wanted to give it more closure, so it took an extra day to write. Other stories are still in progress. I'm waiting until they are finished to post updates.


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